A Fictional Love Story

Lia: Blurred Lines

I don't remember how I made it home that night. The hours from my library shift blurred together with Jenna's parting words ringing in my ears: "You and your book boyfriends! You know they're not real, right?" It was a reminder I didn't need. I knew they weren't real, but was there any harm in pretending they were?

I sighed as I pushed open the door to my small bedroom, immediately greeted by the sight of stacked books on every available surface—my desk, my nightstand, even the small space beside my bed. This was my world. It was messy, sure, but it was mine. It was the one place where I felt in control.

Kicking off my shoes, I collapsed onto my bed and reached for The Story of Ten, the book already lying face down on the pillow beside me as if it had been waiting for me all day. I opened to where I had left off, flipping through pages until I found the familiar passage where Ten—ever the brooding hero—was on the verge of making a decision that would change everything.

His choices were never easy. They were always weighted with consequences, pain, and loss, but that was what made him captivating. He didn't just act; he felt everything deeply, more deeply than anyone else around him. It was like he carried the world on his shoulders, and no matter what happened, he would be the one left standing, even if it meant he had to endure it all alone.

I let out a contented sigh as I sank deeper into the story. My eyes scanned the words, the descriptions vivid in my mind—his dark, disheveled hair that fell over his sharp brow, those intense blue eyes that burned with secrets, and the way he moved through his world like a shadow, always there but never truly seen. Ten was everything I wished for in a character—flawed, complicated, but somehow still perfect in his imperfection.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as I lost myself in the book, each turn of the page bringing me closer to the story's inevitable climax. The quiet of my room was broken only by the soft rustling of paper and the occasional groan of my bed's springs as I shifted positions.

Why can't real life be like this? I thought to myself, pausing mid-paragraph. In fiction, everything made sense. Every moment, every decision, every heartbreak had a purpose. But in real life, things felt chaotic, messy, and out of control. It wasn't like in the books, where characters like Ten always knew what to do, even when they didn't.

In real life, people disappointed you. They expected you to be someone you weren't, someone who fit neatly into their mold. Like my family, for example. My parents adored Jake—how could they not? He was the golden child. I loved my brother, but I hated being compared to him. His achievements were tangible, measurable. He had a good job lined up after graduation, a string of honors following his name, and a clear sense of direction. Meanwhile, I was the daydreamer, the one always with her head in the clouds.

It was easy for them to dismiss me as the unfocused one, the one who spent too much time with her nose in books and not enough time dealing with the real world. They didn't see the real me—not the way I saw myself.

And that's why I needed Ten. He understood what it was like to feel unseen. Even though he was a character on the page, I could relate to him in ways I couldn't relate to the people around me. His struggles, his isolation, his quest for something more—they mirrored my own, and in some strange way, it made me feel less alone.

I was so lost in thought, I didn't hear the knock on my door until it opened with a soft creak.

"Lia?"

I jumped, startled. My mom stood in the doorway, her face tired, her brow furrowed in that familiar expression of disappointment.

"I've been calling you for dinner," she said, her eyes scanning the mess of books around me. "Didn't you hear me?"